


There isn't, Actually

by multiplelizards



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, It just hurts, M/M, One-Sided Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, This Fic Has No Redeeming Qualities, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplelizards/pseuds/multiplelizards
Summary: Yennefer and Geralt start dating.Jaskier...doesn't deal well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	There isn't, Actually

**Author's Note:**

> Be advised there is no happy ending.

"Really wish you didn't do this to yourself, love," Priscilla says. She's seated at the breakfast bar in his kitchen, a mug of warm tea in her hands. She gazes down at where Jaskier's curled up on the floor, his back to a cabinet, head in his hands.

"Yeah," his reply is muffled by his knees, "I know."

"It's not healthy," she points out needlessly.

"I know." And he does. That's part of why it's so fucking frustrating. He should just...get over it. They're friends. They're just friends and he's...glad they're friends. He is. The rest of it shouldn't matter. Geralt dating anyone, even Yennefer, shouldn't matter.

"Darling, you'll be over it in a week," she says, gulping down the last of her tea and rising. She combs her fingers lightly back through his hair as she passes him on her way to the sink to rinse out the mug.

"I hope you're right, Pri."

* * * *

He's not over it in a week.

He tries not to let it bother him, tries to leave the thoughts alone so they'll heal. It feels like an open sore, aches like a bad tooth, a knife through the ribs. He's okay at ignoring it when he's distracted but at night, alone, with nothing else to focus on--

"Jask, are you coming tonight or not?" He bares his teeth at the phone and imagines he looks fierce and angry instead of like he's in pain. 

"I think...probably not. I've got a lot of work to do over here, you know. Teaching...things..." It's a weak excuse.

"You can just say you don't want to go out. It's fine," Geralt says, voice tight and a little angry, "I'm sure this has nothing to do with Yen being there, hm?" The knife in the ribs twists, breathtakingly painful.

"No," he says, voice weak, "No, Geralt, I'm just. Busy."

"Sure. Well, let me know when you're not...busy." He doesn't even say goodbye when he hangs up. Jaskier tosses his phone on the couch and crouches down in the middle of the living room, presses his palms to his eyes, and wills himself not to cry.

* * * *

He goes the next time Geralt invites him out, against his better judgment. He's trying to prove to Geralt he's fine, that he doesn't have a problem with Yen, that he can be an adult about this. He only hopes that's true.

They meet at the little brunch place he and Geralt have been frequenting since just after they'd met, and Jaskier's cautiously hopeful. It's just brunch. He can survive a single brunch with them, with her. It's. It can't be that bad.

He is, of course, wrong.

They're both late, a little rumpled, and Jaskier can see the edge of a fresh hickey peaking from the collar of Geralt's shirt. His hair looks like it's had fingers run through it. Yen's outfit is prim, but her makeup's a little smudged. Jaskier tries not to dwell on any of it.

"Sorry," Geralt says as he takes his seat across from Jaskier. Yen slides into the booth beside him and he tugs her closer, and arm over her shoulder, "got a little, uh, carried away." His grin is apologetic, a little conspiratorial. _What can you do?_ it asks Jaskier.

"Mm." It's all he can manage with the sick, unpleasant feeling churning in his gut, green-eyed and vicious. He pretends to be engrossed in the menu, despite knowing it like the back of his hand. He's. Not sure what he might do otherwise. Something embarrassing, probably.

They order in a stilted kind of way. Geralt makes small talk, as they wait for their food, catching Jaskier up on the goings-on of the ranch he works at, which is more than three quarters a report about the horses and only about one quarter actually things his coworkers have done. He asks about Jaskier's classes, the grading, how he's doing.

He almost expects Yen to butt in, insert herself, but she just sits placidly at his side, smile fond. He wishes she'd give him a reason to hate her, a real reason and not the painfully twisting one in his chest. That's not fair to her. Of course she loves Geralt. Who wouldn't?

He miraculously makes his way through the meal contributing very little to the conversation except when pointedly asked. If he were thinking straight, he'd know how suspicious that was, but as it is he just wants to escape, wants to curl up in his bed at home and pretend very hard not to cry. He wants to feel numb again, like he did when Geralt told him he'd started sleeping with her, the way he had when they'd decided to try and make this thing work.

They say a weak goodbye afterward and it's...lacking. Jaskier can feel it, like static in the air, like a looming thunderstorm. Geralt doesn't look like he's noticed at all.

"I'll see you later?" he asks, and he's not even looking at him, eyes glued on Yen where she's leaning against the hood of his beat-up truck.

"Yeah," he says, "of course." Geralt nods, as if that settles it. Only then do his eyes slide back over to Jaskier.

"Thank you. For today. I know you don't care for Yen, but it means a lot to me, you two getting along." Jaskier doesn't trust his voice, so he just nods. The knife twists, sinks a little deeper.

Geralt claps him on the shoulder before he turns back to the truck and Yennefer. Jaskier doesn't stay to watch him open her door for her, doesn't stay to watch them drive away, just starts walking. Once, Geralt would have driven him home. Now, he takes the bus.

* * * *

_Anyone with eyes can see your pining. You're lucky Geralt's an idiot._

_Figure it out._

The texts are from an unknown number, but Jaskier's not an idiot.

_Mind your own business, witch._

He rolls over in bed and tugs the covers up above his head and doesn't check his phone when it pings again.

* * * *

"You can't just shut everyone out," Essi says where she's reclined back beside him on the bed. He's tucked under the covers, hiding his head beneath the sheets.

"Ah, but I can, Essi darling," he says, not moving an inch. She shifts to drape her upper body dramatically over the lump of him.

"It's pathetic, Jaskier."

"I'm pathetic," he snaps back, "if you hadn't noticed."

She shifts off him, taking the extra sheets covering his head with her. He scowls at her as she settles down beside him again, now face to face, her head on the second pillow. "I don't understand why you didn't say something sooner. I understand why you can't now, but--"

"He's my friend, Essi," he says, and that's true even now, even when he's missed the last four calls and ignored every text since the brunch. He can't face him right now, not when the hurt pulses hot in his chest, makes his eyes burn to think about it, "and he loves her."

"So?"

" _So?_ " he echos, "so he _loves_ her, Essi. And she cares about him it's--Geralt doesn't let himself have what he wants. He deserves this."

"And what do you deserve, Jaskier?"

His eyes _burn_. "I don't know."

* * * *

Essi doesn't leave him until he gets out of bed, but it just means he moves the pile of blankets to the couch. A slightly improved environment, he begrudgingly admits. At least now he can nurse his heartache with the tv on in the background.

He doses off at some point, exhausted in the overwhelming way that's exclusive to emotional turmoil and wakes slowly to the sound of someone in his kitchen. He's been out of it enough lately he just assumes it's Pri over to make sure he doesn't starve himself to death. She’s. A good friend. His best friend, really, not counting Geralt. If only he could be in love with her. He rolls to face the back of the couch and yanks the blankets a little higher when he hears the footsteps exit the kitchen, as if he can hide from her scrutiny that way. Except it's not Pri.

"So who broke your heart this time?"

"What are you doing here?" Jaskier hisses but very carefully doesn't move. He doesn't want to be having this conversation at all, but especially not face to face.

"You quit answering your phone and Pricilla told me you were sulking when I called her." He shoves Jaskier's feet to the floor and sits at the end of the couch. He sets a mug of something on the coffee table in front of Jaskier and curls the other mug close to his chest. Jaskier can just see him over the edge of the blanket. "So. Who broke your heart this time?"

"Who says anyone broke my heart?"

Geralt just sighs. "You haven't done this since Valdo left," he says, and that's not a reminder he wants right now or ever, thank you.

"Yes, well--" he clears his throat, sits upright (there's something terrifyingly vulnerable about laying there with Geralt at his feet). He snatches the mug off the table and curls it close to himself, burrows as deeply as he can between the arm and the back of the couch, knees tucked to his chest. "--it's--" _nothing_ , he wants to say, but this is Geralt. "I'm getting over it."

"What happened?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it does," he says, eyes too solemn, too concerned, "it always does, Jaskier." His chest _aches._ The knife twists, always a little deeper. He's bleeding out so, so slowly.

"He, uh," he clears his throat, "he's started seeing someone else. We're. Um. Kind of done." It's a partial truth. They'd never been seeing each other in the first place.

Geralt's quiet for a beat. "You really liked him," he says, and Jaskier's eyes are burning.

"Yeah," he admits quietly. It's so close to the conversation he wants to be having, the one he won't let himself. Geralt deserves to be happy. He's not going to ruin that. "It's okay though. We, uh. We didn't work very well together, really. I don't think--" he cuts himself off, tears in the back of his throat. "I don't think it would have ever meant to him what it meant to me anyway."

"Jask," Geralt sighs, sets his mug down, and before he can parse what's happening, Geralt's pried the mug of tea out of his hands and tugged him into his arms. He freezes, panic swelling in his chest, but Geralt hums softly, runs a hand down his back, and that's all it takes for him to burst into tears. "Ssh, Jask, it's okay." It's not okay, nothing's okay, but he just clings and cries and tries not to get snot on Geralt's shirt.

Geralt lets him cry himself out, tucked against his chest. Afterward, he hands him back his tea and a box of tissues, miraculously produced from god knows where, and sits silently by as Jaskier sniffles and finishes his drink. He can't help but compare this to last time, when Valdo had broken his heart, when Geralt had sat up with him for hours before tucking him into bed. He'd known even then he was a little in love with him. He'd mourned the time he'd lost when he'd lost Valdo, the things that had, at one point, made him so fond of him. This is...different. Mourning the time that could have been and never was. The little things he still loves and will never be able to have. Like losing a limb. Like losing something vital.

"What do you need, Jask?"

_You._

"To sleep for a week," he says instead, voice rough, eyes stinging again. Geralt makes a soft, sympathetic noise.

"Will you be okay? Want me to tuck you in?" It's a little teasing, but there's an underlying tension there, suddenly.

"You have to go." It’s not a question.

"I've got to pick Yen up from work in about fifteen minutes, yeah," he admits, and something in his chest gives. The knife slips that last little bit forward to puncture his lungs.

"Okay."

"You sure?" Geralt doesn't look totally convinced, but he's also fishing for his keys already.

"Yeah." If he says more than a single word, he'll cry again. Can't have Geralt being late over him.

He rises from his spot on the couch and dips down as if to hug him. Instead, he presses his lips to his forehead, brief and light. "There's someone out there who will love you, Jaskier. You'll be fine."

Geralt leaves after that, key turning in the lock as he sets the deadbolt behind him.

 _No_ , he thinks, sitting in the middle of a murder scene, the metaphorical knife yanked from the wound with the brush of a kiss. Blood seeps from that wound, a wound he can't see or touch but can certainly fucking feel, sharp and painful, _there isn't, actually._

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr.](https://writinglizards.tumblr.com/)


End file.
